like a burning coal. The tiny star flashes up, something bursts softly,
and the flower opens before his eyes like a flame, lighting the others
about it. "Now is the time," thought Petro, and extended his hand. He
sees hundreds of shaggy hands reach from behind him, also for the
flower; and there is a running about from place to place, in the rear.
He half shut his eyes, plucked sharply at the stalk, and the flower
remained in his hand. All became still. Upon a stump sat Basavriuk, all
blue like a corpse. He moved not so much as a finger. His eyes were
immovably fixed on something visible to him alone: his mouth was half
open and speechless. All about, nothing stirred. Ugh! it was horrible!--
But then a whistle was heard, which made Petro's heart grow cold within
him; and it seemed to him that the grass whispered, and the flowers
began to talk among themselves in delicate voices, like little silver
bells; the trees rustled in waving contention;--Basavriuk's face
suddenly became full of life, and his eyes sparkled. "The witch has just
returned," he muttered between his teeth. "See here, Petro: a beauty
will stand before you in a moment; do whatever she commands; if not--you
are lost for ever." Then he parted the thorn-bush with a knotty stick,
and before him stood a tiny izba, on chicken's legs, as they say.
Basavriuk smote it with his fist, and the wall trembled. A large black
dog ran out to meet them, and with a whine, transforming itself into a
cat, flew straight at his eyes. "Don't be angry, don't be angry, you old
Satan!" said Basavriuk, employing such words as would have made a good
man stop his ears. Behold, instead of a cat, an old woman with a face
wrinkled like a baked apple, and all bent into a bow: her nose and chin
were like a pair of nut-crackers. "A stunning beauty!" thought Petro;
and cold chills ran down his back. The witch tore the flower from his
hand, bent over, and muttered over it for a long time, sprinkling it
with some kind of water. Sparks flew from her mouth, froth appeared on
her lips.